The Day of Birds

The bluebird couple arrived early this morning, perched on the wires near my porch, swooped into the suddenly-green mossy grass. He made certain they had first and last dibs, flinging himself again and again at his reflection in my hall window, holding onto the screen every now and then, battered, I imagine.

The Carolina wren who lives under my front porch, among the hydrangea and azalea limbs and leaves, called out morning's reveille with such cheer that I couldn't help coming to listen and look. When I "planted" my bird tree, I never imagined that a living bird would so enjoy temporary residence among metal ones.

Later, at Lake Cheston, as I stood on the dam, two birds knifed through the air, one after another, in a circling ballet of -- what? I don't know. Was I threatening a nest (where?)? Were they pursuing one another in a mating dance? One, more than the other, zipped and zapped every now and then, almost stopping mid-air like a basketball player, to stare and challenge me, and then zoomed on. Now high, now low, he circled and circled and circled.

On the other side of the lake, I spied a robin, huddled with its back toward the path, sitting in weeds. When she (she seemed a she, though I don't know why) heard me, she turned, head over shoulder -- first left, then right -- to look. I made no move, yet she hopped awkwardly further and further into the growth, finally settling, half hidden. She closed her eyes and dropped her weight into earth as if more than sleeping, as if waiting. Once, she opened her eyes and stared at me, then closed them again.

While I looked, another woman came striding with exercise poles around the path's turn. "Here's a robin," I said. "I think she might be injured, a broken wing, maybe."

"Very likely," the woman said, without looking at me or the bird, and strode on.

I couldn't and I can't -- stride on, I mean. Don't be silly, I remind myself. Millions of birds probably die every day. That robin is just one of legions. But I didn't see legions; I saw only that one particular robin on this one particular day. Finally, I walked on, thinking suddenly about my friend Betsy, who would have turned 84 yesterday (she died about three-quarters of a year), and our student Gifford, who would have turned 37 today (she was murdered 11 years ago).

My own birthday comes tomorrow, fast on the heels of a melancholy day of birds, and mortality.